


A Change of Heart

by abbacchihoe



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Humor, POV Third Person, jeankasa - Freeform, sperm donor au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbacchihoe/pseuds/abbacchihoe
Summary: “Shouldn’t we get to know each other first? There’s a possibility you’ll be the father of my child, after all.” For a reason unbeknownst to her, her cheeks had flushed at this last part, though they shouldn’t have, for there wasn’t anything even faintly fornicatory about artificial insemination. Sure, one’s sperm would be inserted into her, but through a tube in place of one’s prostate. Perhaps her diffidence had more to do with her assigned donor’s attractiveness than the idea of insemination itself, as she had originally presumed that all sperm donors unsightly, what with not having a girlfriend or wife to impregnate.Or, the one where Jean is Mikasa's sperm donor.





	A Change of Heart

**Author's Note:**

> long time no jeankasa, huh? i wrote the majority of this over the summer and decided to finish it bc why not? also because it's been a hot minute since i last wrote jeankasa & i missed them.

In nine months, Mikasa Ackerman, whose diet had once been rumored to consist solely of babies ever since the sixth grade, when she brought a homemade lunch of traditional Japanese cuisine which her classmates mistook for baby flesh for some reason, would have one of her own. A baby, that is.

And not just any run-of-the-mill baby: a sperm donor baby. Granted, they weren’t all that different than ordinary babies (though unfortunately, innumerable ignorant individuals considered them thus), but a baby is a baby, regardless of the method by which it was conceived.

But even so, she had trouble wrapping her head around the fact that in a matter of months, she, out of all the other fertile women in the world, would bring a brand-new life into said world.

She had always wanted to be a mother, although not without first settling down with someone she was certain wouldn’t act unfaithful towards her or wouldn’t fall so out of love with that she’d be tempted to act unfaithful towards (though she’d never do such a thing). Unfortunately, all her relationships had ended either way, sometimes even both. If anything, these misfortunes made motherhood, much less marriage, appear ever improbable. But then it occurred to her that one doesn’t need to have a spouse to have a child. Not in this day and age, anyway.

She renounced relationships altogether a year ago, and although at first she ached for the sense of fulfillment being in one offered, she eventually grew to regret doing so any sooner. While most, if not all, of her friends were cooped up indoors with nothing but cable television and Twitter to entertain them while their husbands brought home the proverbial bacon, Mikasa taught boxing during the weekdays and yoga during the weekends. While it wasn’t what her adoptive parents had paid nearly one-hundred grand for her to do (she majored in criminal justice, regrettably, as finding a job in that field was comparable to finding a needle in a haystack), she was considerably more content than her friends claimed to be. (With the exception of Sasha Blouse, because after all, who wouldn’t be happy when they were married to their best friend since birth _and_ had finally fulfilled their lifelong ambition of owning their own restaurant?)

If there was one aspect she missed of relationships, aside from the aforementioned sense of fulfillment, it was the sex. God, did she miss sex. But she even had to forswear that, for she had learned the hard way that men (and once, a woman) fell for her regardless of what her Tinder bio read. (Name: Mikasa. Age: 24. Sexuality: Straight, but what good are labels for, anyway? Currently looking for: Sex, but without the commitment and falling-in-love-before-throughout-or-afterwards part.)

As if that wasn’t infuriating enough, the men (and woman) she had casually slept with had accused her of their unforeseeable infatuation, though in actuality they were the ones at fault, as Tinder was a hookup app, after all, and if they longed for something more, they needn’t even be on there. Besides, weren’t there a hundred other dating apps available? Just because Tinder was “in” at the time didn’t mean it suited everybody’s needs.

Needless to say, she had deleted Tinder from her phone and other such apps and replaced them with pregnancy apps, all of which she had yet to create accounts for, as she had yet to be impregnated.

She didn’t want to be artificially inseminated by just anybody. Luckily, Shiganshina Sperm Bank offered its clients the option of non-anonymous donors, so that way, Mikasa could ascertain that the father of her future child wasn’t a serial killer or one with an occupation of equally appalling proportions. Apparently, her donor, Jean Kirstein, was an artist, and while she didn’t have an affinity for art, as she simply couldn’t fathom it, it was certainty preferable to murder. Unless he really was a serial killer, because didn’t all serial killers (the good ones, anyway) consider themselves artists, their “work” art?

Suddenly Mikasa wished she had selected a public place for their interview as opposed to her apartment; she doubted her neighbors would rush to her rescue in the event that Jean Kirstein (if that was even his real name) drove a knife into her heart, nor smell her putrefying flesh days later, as many of them were elderly and therefore didn’t smell as good as they used to. Perhaps she could fake a hankering for McDonald’s and they could go to the one right across the street…

_Knock. Knock._

Mikasa chugged the rest of her coffee, as if the sable liquid would somehow ward her from the blade of a knife, the bullet of a gun, or whichever weapon Jean Kirstein (again, if that was even his real name) would use to kill her. Placing the empty mug atop the counter, she approached her front door, opening it apprehensively.

Had she been on Tinder and beheld the man before her through there rather than across her threshold, she would’ve swiped right without a second thought; he was painfully handsome, with ash-brown hair partly obscured by the fedora atop his head and the remnants of a beard beneath his lips. His eyes were a beguiling amber, and across his broad shoulders was a messenger bag brimming with what appeared to be a painting.  

 _Or a knife dripping with blood,_ she thought nervously.

Furthermore, he was tall, so much so that he had to tilt her head upwards to meet his gaze; his eyes widened, whether because he too was besotted with her looks or because he found her hideous, she couldn’t tell. He extended a hand, calloused from years of painting (or killing), which Mikasa accepted, shaking it firmly.

“I’m Jean Kirstein,” He said; even his voice was sexy. “But you already knew that.”

Her own voice remained even, somehow. “Mikasa Ackerman.” Then, she echoed, “But you already knew that.”

He crossed the threshold; his scent was that of paint, unsurprisingly. “Nice place you got here.” He observed.

Mikasa glanced at her floor’s wood tiling, her walls’ dull, gray paint, her unimaginative taste of furniture. “You really think so?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he admitted, “I was just trying to be nice. I can add some life to your walls, if you’d like. By life, I meant color, by the way.”

“I may not know much about art,” She said, “But I know enough about it to understand your language. Most of it, anyway. Besides, shouldn’t we get to know each other first? There’s a possibility you’ll be the father of my child, after all.” For a reason unbeknownst to her, her cheeks had flushed at this last part, though they shouldn’t have, for there wasn’t anything even faintly fornicatory about artificial insemination. Sure, one’s sperm would be inserted into her, but through a tube in place of one’s prostate. Perhaps her diffidence had more to do with her assigned donor’s attractiveness than the idea of insemination itself, as she had originally presumed that all sperm donors were unsightly, what with not having a girlfriend or wife to impregnate.

If her assumptions were truly correct, that all sperm donors were ugly, overweight, single men, then this man was most certainly an exception; while everyone appears less attractive up close, this wasn’t the case for Jean. His proximity enhanced his features, if such a feat was possible. He unzipped his jacket, exposing a tight-fitting, paint-splattered T-shirt, through which Mikasa glimpsed a toned abdomen.

There was no way in hell this guy was single. What the fuck was he doing here when he presumably had a girlfriend at home, just waiting to be impregnated?

Unless she was infertile. Or didn’t want children.

“You make a good point, Miss Ackerman,” He said, gesturing towards her kitchen, a smile across his chiseled face. “Lead the way.”

 “So, you paint?” Inquired Mikasa once they were seated; it wasn’t until the words had spilled from her mouth that she longed to stuff them back in there, where they would remain for perpetuity, forever unspoken. Of fucking _course_ he painted, she was aware of this fact long before their encounter. He had even brought one of his masterpieces, for heaven’s sake.

Once more, she blamed his pulchritude for her uncharacteristic awkwardness. She had never been this tense, this gauche, around any of her boyfriends, or sexual partners she never bothered to learn the surnames of. Then again, neither of them had been nearly this…tantalizing.

“Uh, yeah, I paint,” He confirmed, a smile tugging at his lips, “So, you teach boxing and yoga?”

Come to think of it, she had also divulged her profession to him prior to today. It then dawned on her that perhaps he was just as trepidatious as she was. As such, her shoulders unstiffened, the beads of perspiration upon her palms evaporated, her heartbeat pounded at a typical pace, and she didn’t stammer once as she replied, “Yes. Not what I thought I’d be doing when I graduated college, but I enjoy it all the same.”

He visibly slackened as well, enough to stretch a sinewy arm across the table and snatch a cookie from the plate she had positioned in the center, apparently. Something akin to courage surging within her, Mikasa did likewise; their hands settled on the same cookie, the largest of the batch. Although the action was analogous to a pair of teenagers’ hands brushing in a popcorn bucket at a movie theater, it wasn’t the least bit accidental. She examined the dirt beneath his fingernails, imagined them digging into the flesh of her back.

“You can have it,” He said; his hand hadn’t so much as twitched. “It’s not like I need the calories, anyway.”

“Sure you do!” She exclaimed. “You’re as thin as a leaf!” Actually, the biceps she glimpsed just now indicated otherwise, but she wasn’t about to inform this stranger she’d likely never see again of his Herculean physique. Then again, her hand _was_ currently atop his. “Oh, who am I kidding. You’re fucking _shredded!”_

Undertones of crimson appeared in his cheeks, though her gaze was elsewhere: his lips. She wondered whether the nicks on them were consequential of his teeth…or someone else’s. Wondered how they’d feel against her own. “You’re not so bad yourself,” He remarked timidly, “At least you have a reason to be, unlike me. Wanna know the real reason why I work out?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s ‘cause I wanna look good for the ladies,” He finished, his sharp eyebrows waggling all the while.

“If so, mission accomplished,” No sooner had she said this than she clamped the hand that had previously been atop his over her mouth. _Did I really just say that?_

“Well, I highly doubt you work out to look good for the guys, but if you did, mission accomplished.”

His confidence was as contagious as the common cold; she tore the cookie in half, he accepted his portion promptly. “When did I ever say I don’t work out to impress guys?” She broke off a piece of hers, popping it into her mouth; it crumbled between her teeth. Purposefully, her tongue pushed a couple crumbs to the corners of her lips, where they clung. “One can have more than one reason to do something, you know.”

Jean’s own tongue lolled out, licking his bisected cookie before similarly slipping it into his mouth. Unsubtly, he scooted in his chair towards her. “Like how we’re eating cookies yet also seducing one another?” He asked, his voice gravelly.

He waited until they were inches apart to lean over and lick the crumbs from the corners of her lips, his mouth lingering there long after.

“Exactly,” She affirmed before kissing him, clutching at his neck as she tasted the chocolate on his lips and, soon afterwards, his tongue, for he parted his mouth for her, but not before first pulling her from her chair, placing her upon his lap, his lips never leaving hers.

Although they most definitely did when she purred, “I want you to put a baby in me,” into his ear.

“I thought you wanted it done by artificial means.” He mused as he fumbled with his belt.

“Let’s just say I had a change of heart.” She whispered, and it was then that she kissed him so fiercely the chair they were sitting upon toppled over, as did Jean’s messenger bag, which had been sitting at the foot of the table the entire time. Its bag burst open and what slid across the floor was not a bloody knife like she had feared, but a painting.

Jean, his fedora askew, rotated their bodies so that they were lying opposite to it, an impressive feat considering she was straddling him like a child straddles a machine operated horse outside a K-Mart, and she outweighed him by forty pounds. At _least._

“What if it doesn’t work?” He asked as he pulled her T-shirt over her head and unhooked her bra with one hand.

“Then we’ll try again,” She said, bending slightly so he could bury his face in her breasts. “And again, and again, and again…”

He flipped her onto her back with a determination no other man she had been with had shown. Ordinarily, she would have reclaimed her spot atop of him, but she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to let someone else take control for once.

“I like the sound of that,” he said at the same time she asked, “Promise me you’ll keep the fedora on?”

He laughed and removed her panties. “I promise.”

True to his word, he had kept it on.

* * *

“That was…”

“Yeah.”

The pair was presently sprawled across the floor, their labored breathing the only sound.

Mikasa craned her neck to risk a glance at the painting, depicted in which was the face of a woman who looked too much like her to be coincidental. It might as well have been a knife—after this revelation, how could he possibly be anything but a cold-blooded killer?

Mikasa edged as far away from him as her kitchen would allow. Jean hadn’t turned them away from the painting to eliminate any distractions, he had done so to ensure she wouldn’t see it. The urge to peek at it had been prominent their entire…activity, and Mikasa couldn’t decide which she regretted more: sleeping with him, or not glancing behind her _while_ sleeping with him, because he was definitely in her top five in terms of sexual escapades.

He peeled his body, slick with sweat and another bodily fluid, from the floor and struggled to his feet. The expression on his face was one of ecstasy, suggesting he had yet to realize she had glimpsed the painting. Mikasa used this opportunity to snatch the sharpest knife from her kitchen counter and lunged towards him with the blade pointed forward, and it was at this moment that Jean startled awake from his post-coital reverie.

“W-What are you doing?” He exclaimed, dodging out of the way so that her knife plunged into the pantry door instead of his chest.

She wrenched the knife from the wood in which it was embedded before charging towards Jean a second time. Perhaps before he was sentenced to death row she’d have him buy her a new door. “Isn’t it obvious? You painted me before you even met me! That’s not romantic, that’s creepy as fuck!”

The tip of the blade was an unsettling inch away from his throat when he shouted, “I can explain!”

Realizing he sounded genuinely terrified, she drew back the knife. “Then explain.”

“You’re gonna laugh—”

“Believe me, laugh is the last thing I wanna do right now.” She interrupted.

“I figured. Anyway, you’ve never seen me before, but I’ve seen you before. Before you call BS, what’s the name of the art studio across from the yoga studio at which you work?”

“Pangea Art.”

“Well, that’s where I work, and every day, well, every day I’m there, anyway, I see you leading your classes in a maroon sports bra and black yoga pants, and since my boss would kill me for walking across the street to see you during work hours, and since you’d kill me for interrupting your classes, I resorted to painting you.”

Mikasa took a moment to process all this. “That’s creepy.”

Neither of them seemed to notice they were still naked. “I know.”

“But I’d rather have the truth than have you say something like, I dunno, _‘it’s because you’re the girl of my dreams, babe!’”_

His lips, nicked by her teeth, twisted into a wry smile. He waited for the knife to clatter on the floor before approaching her with outstretched arms. “What if you are?”

She accepted his embrace, breathed him in. “Fuck you.”

“I’m afraid you just did.”

* * *

 

“Mommy! Daddy! Look at what I drew in school!”

Jakob Kirstein slammed a scribbled upon piece of notebook paper on the kitchen table, the action nearly upsetting his mother’s mug of coffee. His father took a sip from this same mug, only to spit it right back out.

“I’ll never understand why you drink it black.” Jean said as he poured his own cup and added an immoderate amount of sugar to it. He admired his son’s artwork, squinting as he tried to identify the person depicted in it, if it even was a person; all it looked like to him was a big black blob. In Jakob’s defense, he was five. “Is that…Mommy?”

“It is!” Jakob cheered. “I drew her like you did before you and Mommy had me!” While he had inherited his mother’s hair, he had inherited his father’s eyes and fondness for art.

Mikasa pressed a kiss to her son’s forehead. “How would you like to go the craft store to pick out a frame so that we can hang it right next to the one Daddy drew of me?”

Jakob nodded so fast she feared his head would fall off. Shrugging off his Spider-Man backpack, he took his parents’ hands and led them to the garage.

“When you’re older, Daddy’ll tell you what Mommy thought of him when she saw that he painted her before even meeting her.”

“Really?” Mother and son asked at the same time, mother sounding nowhere near as excited.

“Really.” Said Jean as they stepped out into the sun, in which his wife’s wedding ring glinted.


End file.
